


Frostbite

by TreizeLoves



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Abuse, Captain America - Freeform, Depression, Homelessness, M/M, Minor Character Death, Otp: til the end of the line, Stucky - Freeform, The Winter Soldier - Freeform, homeless, idk what this mess is, kinda angst?, okay so probably pretty angsty but like there's little fluffballs mixed in, pre-serum steve, pre-serum stucky, stucky au, stucky fluff?, tw: abuse, tw: depression, tw: homelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:17:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3803305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreizeLoves/pseuds/TreizeLoves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little tiny, unbeta'd Stucky AU, in which Bucky is a grumpy former secret agent, who retired due to injuries and Steve is the cheerful little guy who bags his groceries at the grocery store!<br/>There's also a dog with a prosthetic leg, cooking shenanigans maybe? and obviously late night cuddles.<br/>I'm not really doing anything specific here guys, just spilling some paint on Ao3 to keep me sane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so if this is terrible and inconsistent, that's because i'm literally just like posting this as i write it, with very little editing. I've been having a really rough week and i've been suffering writer's block for a goddamn while now, posting this here is an outlet and any hits i get really boost my morale.  
> thanks for reading yo, you have no idea how much it helps a writer out, and please leave kudos if you like it, it's inspiration, motivation, and a little emotional support with the click of a button

I live a nice, simple life. Things are straightforward, I get a check in the mail every month, sometimes I fix washing machines for a little extra cash, I eat Chinese take out and pretend to watch tv.

I live alone except for my dog. My dog sleeps on the bed, I sleep on the floor.

There are two empty bedrooms and I've apparently scared the neighbors enough to keep people from knocking on my door.

Things are simple. Things are consistent. Things are simple.

I don’t kill people. I don’t shoot sniper rifles, I don’t go hiking across the Himalayas, I don’t have orders or missions, I don’t know how to break someone’s neck. I don’t practice specialized combat. I don’t kill people.

Today is a nice simple day. Today I’m going to the grocery store to get food for my dog. Her name is Winifred. We called her Freddie. I do. I call her Freddie.

Freddie is bouncing around my living room and kitchen. She has one prosthetic leg, silver and aerodynamic. It matches my arm.

She lets out a whine that grows into a bark as I cross the kitchen to go to the fridge. “I know, I know. Down girl.”

She sits politely by the refrigerator, her tail is wagging and she’s watching me very closely. I open the fridge door, I know there’s nothing in there, we ate our last can of soup last night. I pretend to look anyway though.

“Sorry, Freds, we’re all out of everything.” I pat her head and she shoves her nose right up against my hand, then hops up on her hind legs so she can put her front paws on my thigh.

She keeps bouncing around like that till I kneel down and scratch her head. She pushes her nose against my cheek, she licks my chin and she looks at me when she whines again. Sometimes I wonder if she worries about me. She always looks at me like she can tell.

We used to just call her a tracker. Like a tool, not a living creature, she used to be just a mascot at best.

“Alright, Freddie, alright. I'll go to the store right now, hear that? I’m gonna get us some food.” She wags her tail and hops off me. She knows the word food so she’s not so pushy while I find my clothes and my jacket and my shoes.

I can see her ears drop as I shut the door behind me. She’s just realized she doesn’t get to go to the grocery store.

It’s just gotten cold enough for the walk to the grocery store to be sucky. The wind blows bitter against my face and my nose is pink by the time I get there.

I take about as much care as I usually do shopping, which means half checking to see if I’m in the right aisle, then shoveling things off the shelf and into the cart.

The cashier looks pretty scared of me, she usually does. The bag boy is wearing a shiny smile though.

He’s been working here for about 27 days now. I always notice him, because he looks me in the eyes and speaks above a mumble when he talks to me.

He’s speaking now. “How are you today, sir? Would you like some firewood? We just put it on sale and wintry weather is right around the corner!”

The cashier gives him a warning glance as she rings up my items. If I snap at her today, it wouldn’t be the first time. If I told them both to mind their own damn business, it wouldn’t be the first time.

I give the boy no response other than a vague glance and hand my card to the cashier. It still feels weird tossing around money with my name on it.

We used to pay for everything in cash.

The receipt is a mile long, there’s a coupon at the bottom. The girl behind the counter hands it to me with my card and doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t make eye-contact either.

The bag boy hands me my groceries with yet another cheek stretching smile. “You need help getting any of this out to your car, sir?”

I glare at him and take the bags.

“Have a nice day!” he calls as I walk out the door.

\+ + +

Freddie jogs on the treadmill while I lift dumbbells. I don’t know if she even understands that this is exercise or why we do it every day, but she’s happy to do it anyway. She likes to run on the treadmill, sometimes I bounce a tennis ball off the basement wall for her when I’m in a good mood.

We threw a Frisbee for her on a mission once. She could run faster than the Frisbee would even fly, but she was horrible at catching it.

She just hops off the treadmill when she’s done, she looks at me with her tail wagging.

It stops wagging when I look back at her. She watches me and she whines.

I think she knows what I’m thinking sometimes, I don’t know how. I think she’s ten thousand times smarter than we ever gave her credit for.

It’s only been two weeks and we’re already out of food again. I need to be more careful not to eat too much if I’m just going to throw it up later.

Freddie whines at me again and I realize I’m just sitting on the bench, staring at the wall.

“Sorry girl. I'll go get us more food. Don’t worry.”

She wags her tail at the word food. I drop the dumbbell on to the concrete and pull on a t-shirt that should be in the laundry by now.

“Yeah, see, food. Food is good. I'll get us food.”

It’s gotten cold enough for me to be wearing my larger coat now. I should be wearing a scarf too, or socks, but I don’t care.

When I get to the store, I can’t remember what I came for. Or maybe I didn’t even know why I came in the first place. I didn’t bother checking the fridge before leaving.

I wander aimlessly for too long, I find myself somewhere I shouldn’t be. I grab a six pack, some cheap, shitty beer. The bottle of whiskey I find is even shittier and cheaper.

When I get to checkout it’s some snappy cashier, hurrying an old lady who’s in line in front of me.

That sunny little bag boy is there though, he smiles but it’s not as nice as usual. He looks tired and he looks like he’s trying not to stare at me too long.

Why is he watching me?

The cashier snaps at me, I’m not paying attention and didn’t realize he was done ringing up my items.

I turn a glare on him but he just glares back and repeats the total.

The bag boy’s nose is pink, I notice it when he hands me my purchase.

“Be careful out there sir,” he says with a stifled cough and earnestness in his eyes. “There’s supposed to be a snowstorm tonight.”

Snowstorms are rough. Maybe I could feel it in the air. Maybe that’s why I went to the store without a plan. Maybe that’s why I’m walking home in the cold with nothing but a six pack and a bottle of whiskey.

Freddie doesn’t like snowstorms either. I can tell she’s twitchy, her prosthetic leg makes a little bit more noise than her old one did.

I promise her it’ll be fine as I finish the last beer. The wind is howling outside and we’re in the bedroom.

There are no lights on. I didn’t serve dinner, for myself or Freddie.

After all the beer and a quarter bottle of whiskey, I let sleep claim me, the way storms claim shipwrecks.

Freddie sleeps on the floor next to me.

\+ + +

The next day I wake with old groans in my muscles and bones. I know I must’ve been too tense while I slept. Freddie looks tired too. My head is aching and I see the clock says it’s 12:02 pm so I order some Chinese takeout rather than fixing anything.

Not that I ever fix much.

I hope some kung pao chicken will ease my headache and make Freddie a little less jumpy. When the delivery boy shows up at the door he mentions the fresh, thick layer of snow and gives me an expectant look.

I ignore him.

My headache only gets progressively worse over the next couple hours. Freddie is in a better mood, she whines and licks my cheek as I drag ass around the house, turning lights off and searching all my cabinets for painkillers.

I can’t find any and with a defeated sigh I realize I'll have to go to the damn store.

I take my time getting dressed. Most of my clothes are on the floor, I can’t remember the last time I did laundry.

The t-shirt I pick isn’t much cleaner than the rest, but it’s good enough. I find my gloves draped on the lampshade and Freddie starts whining at me when I head towards the door.

“I'll be fine.” I say and pat her head, though I think she knows I’m lying.

Outside, the snow is beyond ankle deep and the cold wind makes me wanna punch someone. There’s a gas station, just little bit closer than the grocery store.

They don’t sell much but thank god they’ve at least got some ibuprofen.

I just toss some crumpled bills on the counter and leave with the bottle of pills. I don’t need the change and I’m too cold to take my gloves off and count out whatever the right amount is.

I take the maximum dosage as soon as I get outside.

I go a different way to get home, trying to follow already cleared paths so I don’t have to hike through the snow.

A block away from the gas station I trip over a backpack lying on the sidewalk.

“S-s-sorry, sir.” Says a young man, curled up on the pavement next to a trashcan. He pulls the backpack closer to himself to keep it out of the way.

I glance down. I would keep walking except I recognize him. His nose is pink. He’s from the grocery store, the bag boy, the unnecessary little ball of sunshine that speaks to me like I’m normal, what the hell is he doing on the street?

He looks up at me, because I've officially been staring for a moment too long.

“What are you doing?” I say to him.

He makes an irritated face, but speaks politely. “J-just trying to stay warm, s-sir. Is there a p-p-problem?”

“No. Well, I mean, yes, where’s your house? Why the hell are you out here?” I find myself kneeling so I'll be level with his eyes. I glare at him.

He makes another face, this time it’s more confusion than irritation. “I d-don’t have a house. I’m out here ‘cause I got nowhere else.” He coughs.

I stare at him for what I know is once again a moment too long. “What’s your name?”

“Steve, sir.” He sniffles.

I stand. “Get up, Steve. Come on.”

“What?”

“Come on.”

I start walking.

He gets up, shaking a little and brushing off the snow then taking a couple large steps to catch up to me. “Wait, so what’s your name?”

“Barnes.”

“Is that supposed to be a first name or last?”

“Last.”

He coughs and seems to be putting in some effort just to keep up with me. “I know y-you from the grocery store, Mr. Barnes,”

I ignore him and keep walking. What am I thinking? Am I just gonna take him home? I guess so. We’re turning down my street now.

“Actually,” he continues. “I think this is the most I've ever heard you spea—“ he’s cut off when I stop walking abruptly and he bumps into me.

“S-sorry.” He steps back, looking a little unsteady.

“This is it.” I mumble, walking up the sidewalk to my house and opening the front door.

I step through the door first, Steve is right behind me. I'm pulling my gloves off as I hear Steve say, "Aw, poor little guy,"

I turn around. Steve is cooing at my dog, kneeling down so he can scratch behind her ears.

I slip out of my coat and silently pray Steve won’t ask about her mechanical leg.

Guess god’s not listening.

"What happened to his leg?" Steve says, giving Freddie a pat on the head.

"Frostbite." I answer gruffly.

"Is that a joke--" his voice cuts off sharply as he turns and sees my arm, for the first time it's not hidden under a coat or a jacket.

He starts to stammer.

“It’s not a joke. And the dog’s a she.”

I turn my back to him and walk into the kitchen, pulling a box of leftover takeout from the fridge.

A short whistle signals to Freddie to come over. She waits patiently while I scoop some food into a bowl for her.

I take the rest and sit at the kitchen table, I don’t really feel like eating, but I know I should.

Steve moves from the doorway where he seems to have been frozen and sits at the table across from me.

Kid looks like he's been stabbed.

"Listen, M-Mr. Barnes, sir, I am so sorry I did not mean to cause any offense, at all, I just--"

"Yes."

He blinks.

"Yes, I lost mine to frostbite too." I say very softly.

He looks down at his lap. It's silent for a moment, until Freddie finishes her food and puts her head on his knee, looking for another scratch behind the ears.

He smiles obligingly and speaks without looking at me. "What's her name?"

"Winifred. We call her Freddie. I call her Freddie." I watch them. Freddie likes him, obviously, though I think she’d like anybody.

Steve’s hands are still shaking a little from the cold.

“You hungry?” I say after a pause.

He looks up, eyes wide and hopeful. “Yes, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me that.” I stand and open the fridge. I don’t have much as far as actual food goes. I don’t combine ingredients, Freddie and I just eat cold, packaged food and cans of soup.

There’s a frozen pizza I could cook. “You like pizza?” I pull it out and look at him.

“Y-yes, absolutely!”

He’s one step away from drooling. I wonder how long it’s been since he ate? Jesus, how long has it been since he had a place to stay? He always looked normal and clean at the grocery store.

But he must be desperate, desperate enough to come home with me without a question.

Which is pretty alarming come to think of it. I know my skin is paler than it should be, I know everyone’s scared of me, my hair’s a mess, god and I need to do laundry, what was he _thinking_?

I look like a murderer.

“Are you okay?” he’s watching me. He looks worried, so does the dog.

I blink. Shit, I've just been standing here with this stupid pizza, realizing I don’t remember the last time I showered. “Yeah, I’m fine, think you can fix this on your own? Just…yknow…oven.” I mumble and gesture to the oven as I hand him the pizza.

“Yeah, of course, thank you so much, Mr. Barnes.”

“You don’t have to call me that.” I say as I leave the room, heading towards the shower.

“Then what do I call you??” I hear him say after me as I shut the bathroom door.

\+ + +


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys here's some more mess, pretty much unedited.  
> thanks y'all <3<3<3

When I emerge from the shower after, I guess a pretty long time, I don’t know, I can smell pizza.

The only clean clothes I can find are some black sweatpants and an old tank top so I put those on.

When I get back to the kitchen, Steve is sitting at the table enjoying his second slice of pizza. His coat and his bag are stacked neatly in one corner. His hair is sticking up a little, opposed to the flattened, church-going boy look it’s usually in for work.

I’m not hungry but I go to grab a plate anyway. I blink. There’s clean dishes in the sink.

When was the last time I did dishes? Half of what I eat off is disposable. The other half had just been piling up on the counters for weeks.

I look around with the plate still in my hand. He’s swept the floor and wiped the counters too.

“Is everything alright?”

I glance at him. He’s looking at me, he looks a little worried, but I don’t think he’s worried for himself.

“You cleaned.”

“Yeah, the pizza had to cook for like 20 minutes, I felt weird just sitting around.” He shrugs his shoulders, which I’m now noticing are small.

Tiny actually, all of him is tiny, though I don’t think it’s all food related.

“Do you want some?” He gestures at the pizza.

God I’m just standing here staring at him. I sit down and put a slice on a plate. “Hey,” I say. My voice sounds scratchy.

He blinks at me with big blue eyes so adorable it’s like a cartoon.

“Why…why are you here?”

“What do you mean?”

“With me. Didn’t you think about it at all, I could kill you right now. I could’ve killed you, I mean. You’re not supposed to just go places with strangers.”

He shrugs. “You’re not a stranger. I see you at the supermarket all the time.”

“Everybody goes to the store.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Even murderers have to eat.”

He smiles a little and shrugs. “Honestly, this pizza is so tasty, I’m kinda cool with dying for it.”

I blink. I can feel myself smiling, just barely.

He keeps munching on his third piece and gestures to the untouched slice on my plate. “You know, you’re really bad at eating for someone who goes to the store all the time.”

“I’m not hungry. You can have the whole pizza.” I push my plate towards him.

He laughs. “Thanks, but I'll have to finish it tomorrow. Believe me, I am just not a pizza sized guy, I tried it once, never again. Three slices and I’m at full capacity.” He licks his thumb. “Well, maybe four.”

I watch him till I hear Freddie click clack into the room. She pushes between my ankles to get under the table and curls up at Steve’s feet.

He looks like he’s melting. “Awwwww, hey girl, you want some pizza?”

She munches on pizza crusts till Steve is done eating.

Steve stretches and rests his elbows on the table, looking at me. “So, what next? Oh, wait, I never caught your name.”

The first time I try to reply, the sound is too dry and it gets caught in my throat. I swallow and try again, though I’m still talking too quietly. “James. It’s James.”

He smiles. “Nice to meet you, James, I’m Steve. Now we’re acquaintances.”

“Acquaintances?”

“Yeah, it’s what happens before friends. And it sounds really professional, like you know ‘I got so wasted with my friend last night’ that’s normal but nobody ever says ‘wow I was blackout drunk with some acquaintances.’”

I crack a smile. “I don’t think drunken behavior and the eloquence to use the word acquaintance go hand in hand.”

“Exactly! I sound more respectable already.”

“Are you usually telling people about how drunk you and your acquaintances managed to get?”

He laughs. “Nah, but now no one will expect me to. And they won’t expect you to, either, see it goes both ways, you’re a professional man now too.”

“I'll be sure to share that next time I make a new acquaintance.”

He smiles at me for a moment before standing and taking the dishes to the sink. “Is there plastic wrap I could put on the pizza?” he says as he rinses them.

“Maybe.”

“Where would I find it?”

“I don’t know.”

He gives me a look then starts opening cabinets. I try not to stare at him but it doesn’t work out, he moves like a graceful bag of bones and already knows half my kitchen like he’s been living here.

He puts the pizza away and turns to me. “So, uh, I mean thanks so much for the pizza.” He glances at his coat, looking a little unsure.

“You can stay here.”

His shoulders relax. “Y-you don’t have to do that.”

I stand. “Being polite won’t keep you from freezing to death, you know.”

He chuckles then sighs. “Yeah, believe me, I know.”

“Come on,” I head to the hallway.

He follows me, I show him where the bathroom is and head upstairs. Both of the extra bedrooms have some stuff in them, one has all my old tactical gear—guns, clothes, a few computers, a lot that he doesn’t need to see. The other just has some old boxes though, maybe old clothes?

“Here, you can stay in here.” I open the door.  It’s empty, and dusty, two moving boxes sit by an empty bedframe. “Oh, right. I'll bring you a mattress.”

I step out and head towards my bedroom, he follows me.

When I open my door, I can see his eyes widen just a little. There aren’t any lightbulbs in my bedroom, I took them all out. My clothes are everywhere except in the closet. You can see the rumpled pile of blankets and sheets from where I sleep on the floor and the mattress on the bed is completely bare.

“I-is this your room?” he says softly, standing at the doorway while I drag my feet through wrinkled t-shirts and lift the mattress off the bed.

I don’t respond, I don’t know what to say, he sounds like he’s finally realizing what stranger danger means.

I walk back to his room with the mattress and lay it down. “I'll find some sheets. Make yourself at home.”

\+ + +

I don’t sleep well. I mean, as a general statement, I don’t sleep well, but I also didn’t sleep well last night.

With the mattress in Steve’s room, Freddie spent the whole night trying to find a good spot on the blanket with me. I scared her when I got up in the middle of the night.

When I get downstairs the living room smells like soap. There’s reheated pizza sitting on the kitchen table and Steve is washing dishes, his hair looks wet.

The floor looks shiny.

He turns to me and smiles. “Good morning!”

“Hey…did you clean?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah! I mopped the floor in here and I dusted those shelves in the living room, and I vacuumed, I think you need a new vacuum cleaner.”

“I have a vacuum cleaner?”

He laughs. “I reheated some pizza for breakfast cause there’s not really any breakfast food, though, I-I mean if you wanted to buy some bacon or eggs, I can fix those, I mean if you like that kind of food?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, we can do that. I can do that.”

He smiles and dries his hands on his jeans. “We can do that.”

I sit at the table and eat some pizza. I’m hungry.

He mops the splashed water off the counter and grabs his coat.

“Where are you going?”

“Work.” He glances up at me as he reaches for his bag. “Are you gonna be okay here by yourself?”

I pause. I pause too long I realize, but it’s too late. “Yeah. I'll be fine.”

He gives me a small smile. “I'll be back around eight.”

“Yeah, okay. I'll be here.”

He leaves. Some part of me wonders if he’ll even come back. He’s only been here a day, well, maybe 17 hours, but he’s already left an impression.

The kitchen floor is shining. You can see the countertops again. When I walk into the living room, the book shelves look new.

The book shelves are empty. I don’t own any books, maybe I own a couple.

But I never moved into this place. I never unpacked. The shelves are empty, the floor is bare, there’s nothing but a couch and a tv.

And the tv only gets a few channels.

I’m trembling. My hands are shaking and I’m just standing in the goddamn living room, staring at the furniture.

“Freddie!” I start calm but then suddenly I’m shouting. “Freddie!”

I hear the jangle of her tags, the click of her metal paw. She bounds down the stairs and she runs right up to me and I hit the ground on my knees and I’m hugging a dog like an idiot.

And feeling anything other than empty is hard.

\+ + +

I’m in the basement running on the treadmill when I hear the front door open.

Freddie barks excitedly and runs up the stairs, I can hear Steve greet her cheerfully. I turn the treadmill off and glance around for my water bottle. Did I bring a water bottle down? Maybe not, I feel light-headed.

“James? Are you here?” Steve says from upstairs.

“Yeah. Down here.” I call and in a second he comes down.

“Oh! Awesome, I was just about to ask you where the washer and dryer were. I bought the ingredients for meat loaf and mashed potatoes, um, if you haven’t eaten already.”

I blink and glance up and down at him. His knuckles are pink from the walk in the cold. He’s got grocery bags in his hand and his pink cheeks make him look bright and young.

I must be pale in comparison.

“You okay?”

“Sorry.” I push my hair out of my eyes.

“It’s okay. How about you go take a shower while I fix dinner? Is that alright?”

“Yeah, yeah that’s fine. I'll do that.” I drag ass up the stairs and push my way through the bathroom door.

I sit on the edge of the bathtub and for a long time, I don’t turn the water on. I just close my eyes and listen to the house. I can hear Steve’s footsteps. I can hear Freddie bouncing around after them.

I can hear Steve telling Freddie she’s a good girl and asking her if she knows where things are.

Before I shower I pull out my razor and I shave my face for the first time in too long.

I comb through my hair instead of just pushing it out of my way.

I take my time in the shower, till the water runs cold.

When I get out I can smell food. My stomach growls.

I’m starving.

Steve is waiting in the kitchen. When I come in he looks up and smiles. “Wow, you look nice. Potatoes are on the table, I found a can of asparagus in the pantry so there’s some of that, and the meatloaf is almost ready!”

“Thanks.” I try to smile and add in a mostly unintelligible mumble, “It smells amazing.”

“I um, did some laundry, I hope you don’t mind. I don’t have that many clothes so I just gathered some up, y’know, cause doing a full load seemed more efficient.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Okay good, I just folded them and put them away as best I could.” He serves us both mashed potatoes and pulls the meatloaf out of the oven, before finally sitting down.

He sighs and smiles at me, all true sunshine and shit. “How was your day?”

I shrug, because I don’t know what to say. I spent most of it running and wishing Freddie could cure the penetrating loneliness. I walked the halls, realizing that it’s been a year since I shared a house--shared anything with another human being.

I prayed that Steve would actually come back and…

He did.

“You came home.” I say softly, glancing at him. “I mean, I didn’t think you’d come back.”

He laughs. “I have to admit, you’re pretty creepy and I think all your neighbors are afraid of you? When I left this morning this old lady stopped me and she was like ‘Are you lost young man?’”—at this point Steve does a purely adorable old lady voice—“and I was like ‘Ummm? No, I know him.’ And oh my god, James, she got this look on her face like I’d just admitted to eating babies. And she turned around like so fast her little like weird old lady gown billowed out and she hobbled back to her house and when I got back again she just glared at me through her window.” Steve is laughing and gesturing brightly.

The more he speaks, the more I find myself laughing with him.

“Honestly though,” he continues, “Just like, since yesterday, seeing you has changed my opinion so much. You’re so nice.”

I blink at him and he giggles.

“See? You’re smiling and you got some color in your cheeks, people just don’t care enough to get to know you.”

I smile down at my hands. “I’m not that nice.”

Steve and I talk for hours. He says he likes to draw and travel, he says he’s only 22. When he finally says goodnight, I go to my room and discover the floor is completely clear. All my clothes are freshly washed, folded and put away.

Even my blanket has been straightened, where it lies on the floor. On top of it is a tiny note that says:

_Sorry, I’m too small to move the mattress back by myself._

My heart glows. I've never described my heart as glowing before. But that’s definitely it. It’s glowing.

\+ + +

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know about typos/triggers/squicks and i'll fix em and tag em


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys i have a busy weekend so apologies in advance if i'm not able to update like i have been. meanwhile, have some touchy feely idiots

Steve has been here for eleven days now. He cleans and he cooks and he sometimes shouts at the tv when he’s watching by himself.

His soap is in the shower, his shoes are by the door.

He put a light bulb in my bedroom and bought natural detergent.

When he comes home Freddie greets him, jumping up and down with her tail wagging, barking and whining, like she’s showing all the excitement I feel.

Today is day twelve with Steve. He left for work a little while ago and I’m pacing in the living room, like an idiot.

He’s turned four walls into a home. He’s turned bare food into actual meals. He’s turned me back into a person, at least he’s trying to.

I have to try too.

“Freddie!” I whistle and she emerges from beneath the kitchen table sitting in front of me happily.

I take a deep breath. “Alright. We’re going for a walk, girl.”

She just watches me.

I've never taken Freddie on a walk. I figured letting her run on the treadmill and getting some fresh air in the back yard was enough.

Not to mention the neighbors are always giving me dirty looks and bringing their kids inside when I pass by.

I shake my head. “The neighbors don’t matter, okay Freds? We owe it to Steve to go on this walk and that’s what we’re gonna do.”

She pants at me, squinching her eyes. She knows I’m psyching myself up, I don’t think she minds.

I take my time searching for her leash. Two weeks ago I was barely scraping by and living all day every day in the dark. Going for a walk, being normal instead of just pretending to be normal, that’s a big step.

I know it. I should be sensible. I know I’m not worthless, I just have to give myself a chance.

Freddie whines at me.

Steve has been promising to take her on a walk since the day he got here. He hasn’t yet, the poor kid can’t handle much and he _always_ takes on more than he can handle.

He falls asleep on the couch most nights after work, he wheezes when he’s been cold for too long.

I honestly don’t know how he’s made it this far, especially living on the streets.

Freddie gently puts her nose in my hand and lets out another subdued whine. I’m holding the leash. She knows what it’s for, from back in her special ops days. She’s excited and wagging her tail.

“Alright girl, alright, I’m sorry. Come here.” I attach it to her collar. I’m wearing my coat and my boots. I’m ready to go and I’m out of excuses.

The old woman next door glares at me through the window as we crunch along the sidewalk in front of her house. I feel uneasy, seated on a swaying platform somewhere between wanting to murder that old woman and wanting to kill myself.

Freddie is bouncing back and forth, her tail wagging unrelentingly as she sniffs every lump of snow there is to sniff.

I try to focus on how overjoyed she is and after a minute, it works. It’s easy to just follow her around and think about things. Good things, not old memories. It’s easy to think about Steve. I’m curious about him. I’m curious about how long he was out in the cold. We haven’t talked about our pasts to each other.

He talked a little about sleeping in the snow, he didn’t act like it was a big deal, just said working minimum wage meant he had to choose between rent and food and he chose food.

Though apparently the amount of sick days sleeping in the cold brought meant he lost food as an option too.

Freddie and I just walk around the block. Being outside is tiring and it’s too cold to go far.

Back in the house she shakes off all the snow and I collapse on the couch, shoes still on.

I can’t stop thinking about Steve. I feel like I should be more worried about him. But then I realize I don’t even know his last name and I wonder if maybe I should be more worried about myself.

\+ + +

“Steve!” I call, heading up the stairs. “The oven is going off! Should I take the chicken out?”

He doesn’t respond so I climb the rest of the stairs and knock on his door.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m coming,” he says from inside. “You can open the door.”

I open the door. He’s sitting on his bed holding something.

“Sorry, Freddie knocked one of the boxes over.” He smiles at me. He’s holding a picture frame. “You were in the military?”

I swallow and slowly step closer. “Yeah.”

He lifts the picture. I recognize it. It’s me, at eighteen, wearing my fatigues and holding a strip of red fabric.

On the bottom the caption reads: _Bucky’s stolen shot_ scrawled in Gabe’s handwriting.

Steve looks at it for a moment longer. “Bucky?”

“That’s what they called me.”

“That’s so cute. You look so happy.”

“It was the first time I ever shot a rifle.” I find myself smiling.

Steve looks up at me. “Is that what the fabric is?”

“Yeah,” I take the picture gently and sit on the bed next to him. “I wasn’t even supposed to, I mean, I was brand new, that was my second week, maybe. I’d already started two fights. But there were these two snipers there, having this competition. They took an old red t-shirt and hung it on a dead tree half a mile away from camp. They’d been trying for days to shoot it but neither of them could and I think it was pissing them off because they were being real assholes to the rest of us. And I had a couple of buddies and I don’t know, we just got it in our heads like, we could totally do it, I was already a better shot than anybody there, Rumlow knew he could distract the officers long enough for me to use one of their rifles.  
So we laid out this plan and I waited by their set up while Jones and Rumlow made up this crazy story about some troops swerving to avoid a lizard and wrecking a hummer and how they needed some Officers to help pick them up.  
And it worked out just beautifully they took them on a drive out to the tree right as I made the shot and when I realized it’d be successful I shot it again _twice_ just to fuck with them. Jones brought back a strip of fabric and I got in so much damn trouble. Sergeant made me run till I threw up three times.”

“Oh my god that’s crazy! I didn’t know you were a sniper!” Steve smiles at me.

“Yeah, they moved me up after that, I mean, I was still in huge trouble but I made the shot on my first try and they knew I should be training with a rifle.”

“That’s amazing.” He gives me a wide smile. His shoulder is pressed against mine. His eyes are practically glittering. “I just have one question.” He says.

“O-oh yeah?”

“Do I get to call you Bucky now?”

I laugh nervously and look down at my hands. Why am I nervous? Why is he sitting so close to me? Is my face as hot as it feels?

“I guess if you want to you could—wait, what is that smell?” I look up. Something smells like fire.

“Oh shit, the chicken!!” Steve leaps up and runs towards the stairs.

It takes me a second to remember that that’s why I came up here in the first place. When I get back into the kitchen Steve is fanning the room with a cookie sheet to disperse the smoke. The chicken is sitting on the table, only mildly burned and definitely still edible.

Steve huffs and puts his oven-mitted hands on his hips. “Sorry, I guess I was just so wrapped up in the magic of Private Bucky Barnes I forgot about dinner.”

I smile and grab plates for us. “I've eaten worse. Besides it was my fault. I shouldn’t have rambled for so long. It’s my fault.”

Steve stifles a cough as he sits down. “It’s okay. I'll take burned chicken if it means a chance to learn more about you.”

“There’s not that much to learn. You though, you’re a mystery, I realized today I don’t even know your last name.”

He blinks then laughs. “Oh my gosh, I completely forgot. I've been living here more than a week and I haven’t even introduced myself! Rogers. Steve Rogers.”

“Alright. Good to know.” There’s something inside me that says he’s lying. But I don’t think he is.

“Hey, um that picture of you, we could put it on one of the shelves in the living room, I think it would look nice.”

I nod. “We can do that. If you want. It’s not like there’s anything on those shelves right now.”

He smiles. “Great! We should really see what else is in those boxes!”

\+ + +

Steve helps me unpack the boxes a week later. Actually he kind of makes me unpack the boxes a week later. We find some more books, we find some of my clothes. We find a necklace that belonged to a girlfriend I had in high school.

I throw a lot of it away and Steve tries several times to convince me to take the mattress back to my room.

“Come on, you shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor. And Freddie always pushes me over so she can sleep up there with me.”

“You love having Freddie up there with you.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I do.” His cheeks are always just barely frosted pink along his cheek bones. I can see freckles going down his neck and he pushes his hair out of his face enough to keep it perfectly messed up.

What am I thinking?

I’m not a good person. He’s better than I've ever been and he’s only 22.

“You really shouldn’t sleep on the floor though.” he says it more softly this time. “It’s too cold to do that and I can sleep on the couch.”

“I'll buy another mattress, Steve.” I roll my eyes and lean back on his floor where we’ve been sitting to go through the boxes. “You don’t have to give up your bed, idiot.”

“Hey, I’m not the idiot! The idiot is the one sleeping on the floor.” He smiles and pokes me in the rib with his toe.

I can’t help but laugh.

“Hey Bucky?” he watches me.

I can’t decide if I like it when he calls me that. I think I do. “Yeah, Steve?”

“Um, I've been saving up a little, do you maybe wanna go to the store today? I mean, not the grocery store, obviously, I’m so sick of that place.” He laughs nervously. “But I think I have enough for a set of pastels and I thought, I dunno, maybe we could find some books for your shelves…”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Let’s go somewhere. I never go anywhere, I just—“

“Get a check in the mail?”

“Yeah.” I look away. “It’s compensation.” I mumble. “for the arm, for everything. I don’t have a job anymore, they just pay me to, I don’t know.” I trail off towards the end.

Steve scoots a little closer. “Do you mean the army? Is that how you lost your arm?”

“Yeah.” I just whisper the word. I’m looking away from him because I can feel the prickliness in the corners of my eyes. It’s like I only know how to bare my soul to him. I don’t know how he makes me feel like this.

Steve gently takes my hand and he speaks after a long pause. “I have a scar right here, from when my lung collapsed and I had to go into emergency surgery.”

I glance back at him. He’s just pointing to a spot on his ribs.

“And, I mean, I have some more, I used to get beat up, uh, kind of a lot. And I was upset with being y’know black and blue and scarred and my mom, back when she was still…my mom used to say that scars are poetry on our skin. She said that scars are the world’s way of showing everyone else we’re masterpieces, that people have worked on us, scars are brushstrokes and paint marks because,” he stutters and takes a shaking breath. “Scars are brushstrokes and paint marks because surviving is a work of art.”

“Steve,” I sit up. His hand is shaking in mine. There are tears on his cheeks. I don’t know what else to do. “Steve, don’t cry,” I murmur as I press my lips to his.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heya guys. sorry i made everyone wait so long for this. Warnings for like smutty hiints i guess but lack of actual smut.

Kissing Steve isn’t what I would have expected. I picture him as this delicate little rose, pink and prone to falling to pieces at any moment, but he’s not. He’s a whole cherry blossom tree, still pink, still capable of being scattered with the breeze but strong too. I realize it as my hands travel his body and drag across his bones and his muscle, as his fingers interlace at the back of my neck, he is clinging to this world with all the roots he has and he looks beautiful doing it.

I’m half on top of him before he breaks the kiss and stares up at me with a bright mix of fear and excitement dancing about wide blue eyes.

I only glance at him though, before moving to kiss his neck instead, pressing him farther back into the floor. I slip my hands underneath his shirt as I leave a mark on his collar bone, I can hear him gasp at the cold touch of metal, I can hear his heart beating like it’s trying to escape his ribcage.

Every cell in my body screams and urges me towards him, I don’t just want him, I want to make him _mine_ , I want to never be alone again.

I push his shirt up to his chin, I drag my tongue across his chest and slip a hand down to grab him by the hips, to lift him against me.

He moans when I swirl my tongue around his nipple, he grabs a handful of my hair as his back arches off the bed and he makes some sound, maybe words but I’m not listening.

I press my hand against him through his jeans and I bite the spot between his neck and his shoulder and all I can hear is my own blood rushing and his heart beating and I think he’s saying something but I can’t focus.

His skin tastes good and his hands are against my chest and—and his hands are shaking and pressing against me, they’re pushing me away.

“Stop! Stop! P-please slow down.”

I pull back. He’s gasping for breath, he’s wheezing pitifully, his eyes are lit more strongly with fear than with excitement.

I sit up, my knees are on either side of his hips. realize I have no idea how long he’s been speaking.

I have no idea how long he’s been telling me to stop.

“S-sorry,” his voice is still wispy and breathless. “I-it’s just I-I can’t breathe and I’m s-sorry, I mean—“ he inhales desperately, like someone’s got a hand clamped on his throat.

“I-I’m just afraid, it’s not like, I mean, I think you’re so am-mazing—it’s not that—“ he coughs.

“Don’t apologize, don’t apologize. Fuck.” I push my hand through my hair. I shake my head but I can’t dissipate the things writhing inside me.

I've killed someone before. I've killed someone with my bare hands.

And I could have easily killed Steve.

Steve looks up like he’s worried about me, despite the fact that he’s still lying on the floor with his chest heaving, his shirt still pushed half way up his torso.

I don’t know how to explain this to him. I _can’t_ explain this to him.

“James.” He says it with a soft little sigh like he’s finally caught his breath.

I look back at him.

“We can keep going now.” He smiles bashfully.

“Are you sure? I could’ve—I could’ve hurt you.”

“I trust you.” He says very softly, kissing me. “Though if it’s okay, I’d like to move to the bed.”

I nod and follow him into bed. I don’t speak because I don’t know what to say. I just try to be as gentle as I possibly can. I try to keep my touch light as a summer breeze and I just barely kiss his neck and his chest.

There are marks from how hard I grabbed him and bit him minutes ago. I hesitate to push his shirt up any farther but he smiles at me and pulls it over his head while I watch.

And again I feel as if every cell in my body is urging me towards him. I want to make him mine and I want to keep him close so I’m never alone again. And my hands shake and I swallow because I am so terrified that violence is the only thing I know.

But then he kisses me again and wraps his arms around my neck. He grinds his hips against mine and he gasps when I run my thumb over his nipple.

He pulls me down, lying on the bed, he trusts me to be on top of him and he trusts me to listen, like an idiot. He exposes his body to me and he murmurs my name and I make him mine in the gentlest ways I can think of. I give him my clothes and I let him grasp handfuls of my hair. I press my lips to every scar and freckle and make him moan.

And I understand. Violence _is_ the only thing I know. But I can learn more.

\+ + +

Steve’s body has a lot of scars on it, or at least more than it should.

I can tell a lot of them are surgical scars. I can tell a lot of them aren’t.

There’s a spot on his left shoulder where it looks like a few cigarettes have been put out on his skin. Above his hipbones on both sides there are ladders of thin white lines, presumably from a razor blade. I believe they’re self-inflicted, though I don’t want to think about it.

He is nestled against my chest right now, catching his breath. He didn’t even bat an eyelash at the not so smooth transition from metal to skin on my left shoulder. He smiled at the old marks on my body and he gave me a look that I can’t even begin to explain.

It was a look that well represented this glowing sort of acceptance inside him. The way he looks at me a lot, but this time so much more powerful.

“Do we still get to go to the store today?” he murmurs against my skin.

I laugh softly. “Yeah, we can still go.”

“Good. I wanna draw a picture of this moment.”

“You draw?” I glance down at him. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Well,” he stutters nervously, “I mean art supplies is expensive, I don’t draw that much.”

“I'll buy it for you. I'll buy you anything.” I cup his face in one hand.

He blushes rose red across his cheeks and grins. “Bucky, don’t start getting all emotional on me.”

I smile. “You started it.”

When we go to the store we do get supplies. We get colored pencils and sketchpads and pastels. We buy books too, all these classic fairy tales that Steve seems excited about.

He’s shy and nervous about showing me anything he draws, though it’s all beautiful.

I try to be careful when I touch him, though sometimes he tells me I can do whatever I like.

We still sleep in separate rooms. We still don’t talk about our pasts.

There’s still some darkness that I think both of us are holding on to. But for the most part, when we’re together, we live in the light.

\+ + +

Steve has been here exactly one month.

We’ve filled a whole shelf with books and movies now. I put Steve’s drawings on the fridge like he’s a little kid, just to mess with him.

He rolls his eyes, but he smiles too.

We walk Freddie together sometimes. Steve likes to hold my hand while we walk and I think it makes us both nervous.

Some nights, we read fairytales and we kiss and it’s easy to get carried away so I spend the night in his room.

Some mornings he tries to guide my hand and show me how to flip pancakes and eggs, no matter how much I remind him that I am a grown man and that I did cook before he came along.

Some days I couldn’t be happier. There’s something though, hidden deep within me, locked away like my guns and my tactical gear, something that says he isn’t telling me everything.

Today, I’m lying on the couch, waiting for him to get home from work, as usual. I’m used to listening, so I can hear his light footsteps tripping up the stairs on the front porch.

“Bucky!” Steve stumbles in the door with arms full of grocery bags. “Bucky, come here! We gotta make cake!”

I sit up on the couch. Steve looks unreasonably excited and his nose is still pink from the cold. “I got everything we need for apple cake. Do you wanna make it with me?”

“Apple cake?”

“Yeah! It’s my favorite, my mom used to make it and she showed me and now I’m gonna show you.”

“Alright.” I stand and take some of the groceries from him.

Steve pulls off his boots while I put groceries away. As soon as he’s got his coat off he bounces into the kitchen and starts pulling out eggs and milk and butter.

“Can you chop up some apples?” he chirps as he tries to stretch tall enough to grab a mixing bowl from the top shelf.

He’s not tall enough.

His shirt lifts to show his stomach and he wobbles on his tip toes.

I can’t resist him, I wrap my arms around him and I kiss his neck from behind and he giggles and falls back against me.

“Why you gotta keep the bowls up so high, huh?” he rests his hands on top of mine.

“It’s cute when you try to get them.” I mumble against his skin.

For a minute we’re just like that, just close and it’s so nice, I don’t know how to ever explain it.

Then Steve is wiggling away and washing apples and chattering to me on and on about this show he watched the other day.

We mix the ingredients and Steve throws flour at me and it’s a damn mess by the time the cake is in the oven.

My shirt is solidly coated with flour and I splashed Steve with both water and milk and he’s still laughing.

“Now we just gotta wait! That’s the worst part honestly,” he perches at the table. “It just keeps smelling better and better and it’s still not done but you want it so bad.” he gazes off into the distance like he can taste it already.

He’s too cute.

I sit down at the table across from him. I reach out and clap my hands in front of him and the resulting puff of flour makes us both laugh.

“I’m coated.” I grin at him.

“Hey, you started it.” He sticks his tongue out.

“Yeah, like it’s my fault you knocked the cup over. I’m not the one singing and dancing in the kitchen.”

“Well, I’m not the one actually covered in flour, so,”

“Oh, we can change that.” I jump up and reach for the bag of flour.

“Bucky!!” Steve is already fleeing. “Don’t you dare!”

I chase him down, I throw a fistful at him like I’m five years old and despite the absolute mess, I don’t regret a thing.

We’re on the floor and still laughing by the time the timer goes off in the kitchen. Steve pulls the cake out, licking his lips as he sets it down to cool. We’ve barely let ten minutes pass by the time he slices us both pieces.

I bite into mine enthusiastic just as he shoves his in his mouth.

It tastes _awful_.

Like dirt and sour candy and I wanna spit it out and my head is flooded with worries. Maybe I forgot how to taste properly, god maybe I've ruined a perfectly good cake with my own worthlessness.

“Bleghk!” Steve nearly chokes, spitting his out right back on to the plate. “Oh, what the hell!”

“I’m sorry,” I don’t know why I’m apologizing. I don’t know why I’m filling with despair. This is how things were. Before Steve got here everything tasted awful and maybe it’s my fault. This is the first time I've ever really helped Steve cook. It must be my fault.

Steve is busy smelling his slice and frowning at it. “What did we do?”

“I don’t know, fuck, Steve, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened,” I run a flour covered hand through my hair.

Steve is barely listening though, he’s shuffling things around on the countertop and looking at the cutting board where we chopped the apples.

I watch him with misery seeping into my toes until he suddenly starts laughing.

“Bucky, oh my god,” he continues to giggle as he turns around with a bag in his hand. “That is the last time we try baking and making out at the same time!”

“Wait, what?”

“When I was measuring out the sugar,” he pauses because he’s still sniggering. “I was measuring out the sugar and you started kissing me and I kissed you back and then I started tickling you because you were being all distracting and cute as hell, oh my god, Bucky, I was measuring out _salt_ not sugar!”

He laughs as he lifts a bag that is clearly marked salt. “The sugar’s over there!” he points to a questionably similar bag sitting by the fridge. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice!” he looks like he’s about to fall over he’s laughing so hard.

And after a second I’m laughing too. Because out of all the possibilities, with the flour everywhere, with measurements and ovens involved, we didn’t mess up something hard.

We messed up something easy. We were too busy kissing and laughing and the cake didn’t even matter.

“You’re wonderful, Steve.” I smile at him.

“I know! I’m such a screw up, oh my gooood,” he puts his hand on his face as he catches his breath from all the laughter. “We made such a huge mess too, there’s not even any cake to show for it.”

\+ + +


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so just warning you guys i feel like this chapter gets pretty graphic in the violent sense, not the sexy sense. also this chapter is kind of a roller coaster cause lbr writing is hard. also if ur still with me at this point i would like to thank you eternally for reading. it really actually does mean a lot to me guys.

I wasn’t in the army for very long. Not technically anyway. That story I told Steve, about the rifle, that got me selected for a special program.

I was stupid, I was eighteen and I had nowhere else to go anyway. So I didn’t question a contract that said ‘ _will be applicable until termination of employment or employee_ ’.

I didn’t question when they packed up my stuff and shipped me to a tiny room with 5 other soldiers and a guard dog. I mean Rumlow was there and he was my friend so I wasn’t worried about it. Training was unrelenting and just short of unbearable, but again, we were all friends.

The superiors liked that we were friends, it made us work better as a team and that’s what they wanted, they reinforced it every day.

I was no longer an I, we were all a we.

And any mission that didn’t bring everyone home was considered a failure, even if there were no casualties.

For a good while, I thought we were invincible. We’d never failed a mission outside of training, we were good at what we did, we were a team small and powerful enough to maneuver any situation.

We were strong and we were smart, everything was great. Fighting is something I've always been good at and on my team, my violence was applauded.

Our missions were diverse, all were top secret. We diffused terrorist organizations, we carried out assassinations of civilians, we recovered lost government property and did reconnaissance.

I didn’t realize how important we were. And I realized the danger of knowing everything I know far too late.  
I've seen a lot. I've done a lot. There’s a reason they keep me in a nice house in a nice neighborhood. There’s a reason they pay me off every month.

There's a reason they left me with the guard dog.

\+ + +

“Steve?”

He jumps when I say his name. Something’s been bothering him lately.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, sorry, just, thinking about things.” He looks down at the sketchbook sitting on his knees. We’ve been sitting on the couch for at least an hour but the page is still blank.

“Things I should know about?” I touch his hand.

He shakes his head, still staring at the blank page.

I stand and kiss his forehead. “You want some tea?”

“Sure.”

I go to the kitchen to start some water boiling. I’m so worried about him. I want him to have secrets, I want him to have privacy, I want to trust him. But lately, he just keeps drawing further into himself. He keeps glancing out the window like he’s expecting to see someone. He keeps saying he doesn’t feel like walking with me and Freddie.

I lean against the counter while I wait for the kettle. I knead my eyebrows and find myself asking the question _what would Steve do?_

This has to be what he was experiencing with me. Back before I could relax on the couch, before I was doing things like brewing tea and walking the dog.

What did he do to save me?

\+ + +

I was younger than Steve the first time I killed someone. Not by much, I was 21 but I can’t say there’s a good age to become a murderer.

We went through three years of training and they warned us our hands would be bloodied but it still takes you by surprise, y’know.

We were in Russia and it was very black and white, he was just a bad guy, he was buying weapons large enough to level a small town and he had all these Russian-shouting henchmen, just like in the movies.

But I lost my gun, let it get twisted out of my hand and I had to stab a man to death and that’s so different than the movies.

We all had that experience. Everyone had to feel someone’s heartbeat stop and we drank afterwards, shouting about victory and passing it off as a celebration.

We made it through the night because we had each other and when the next day arrived we found inside ourselves a new craving.

With every mission, stopping someone’s heart got a little bit easier.

\+ + +

When I get back from the store, the living room is empty. The kitchen is dark and I put the groceries away without turning the light on.

Upstairs, Steve’s door is shut and Freddie is curled up on the floor in front of it. She perks up when she sees me then whines and tries to push Steve’s door open with her nose.

I knock and then open the door.

Steve is quickly hiding a piece of paper in his back pack, pulling a book out instead. “Hey, Bucky.” He says softly, though I can see from here his hands are shaking.

“Is everything okay?” I step over to the bed and sit next to him.

“Yeah! Fine, just fine, just…” he swallows.

“Steve,” I gently tilt his chin towards me.

“I love you.” He blurts out.

I blink.

He turns red in front of me and when he opens his mouth I know he’s about to apologize so I put my finger on his lips.

“I love you too.”

He relaxes and puts his head against my shoulder.

\+ + +

We were in the Himalayas, looking for a hidden base. We weren’t even supposed to engage, it was just recon, we weren’t even supposed to engage.

We set up camp miles from the location, tents under the stealth jet, Freddie bouncing around a campfire in the snow. I can still see Rumlow, tossing back a beer that we weren’t supposed to have, exclaiming, “This week boys! This week we are getting laid!”

I can still hear the shots ringing out.

Rollins went down first, blood bright on the snow.

Kaminsky was next and we were panicking.

We were in stealth, our camp should have barely been visible to the naked eye.

I threw Belova and Ward behind two supply chests we had stacked by a tent. As I reached for Rumlow his body was knocked backwards against mine, I could feel a bullet pierce my leg.

I can still see Rumlow’s blood on my hands.

One too many stray bullets hit the jet. When it exploded the ground shook.

Everything was a haze, chaos fading in while my ears were ringing. I could hear Ward and Belova screaming as they burned. I could feel the last gurgling breath Rumlow ever breathed from where his body was pressed against mine.  
I could feel the ground continuing to shake beneath me, I could hear the groaning and rumbling of the mountain and see the snow shifting all around us, I could hear the crackling of the flames and the fleeing footsteps of the hostiles that attacked us.

And beneath it all, something I didn’t expect. The small, pitiful whines of a dog named Freddie.

I leapt towards her, mostly on instinct. She was in my arms by the time the avalanche roaring down the mountain swept over camp.

We were buried beneath the snow for four days. I kept thinking _we’ll run out of air, we’ll run out of air_ but we didn’t. Someone from the rescue crew told me that can sometimes happen, that freshly displaced snow can contain a lot of air pockets.

I kept Freddie close to me, my left arm was wrapped around her as I tried to pull her into my coat, though my coat could only fit so much.  
It’s dark when you’re buried alive and I remember the shock when they dug me out, seeing my left hand had turned black. Freddie’s leg looked the same way. One of the doctors said if I’d used her to keep me warm instead of using myself to keep her warm she would’ve died and I would have kept my arm.

The new arm was outfitted like a weapon. It was their full intention for me to return to the field. But just training was disastrous and it became apparent quickly that I was nothing but damaged goods.

I signed something. They said they would set me up so long as I never told anyone anything.

They let me keep the dog.

\+ + +

I’m walking Freddie right now. Steve is at work. I thought that whole I love you thing was all that was bothering him. But he’s still been acting weird.

Freddie wraps the leash around a telephone pole as she sniffs something. I reach around the worn posters and flyers dangling off it to untangle the leash and as I step back I realize it's something else bothering Steve.

On the telephone pole in front of me is a new looking flyer with Steve’s face on it. The photo is very old but it’s definitely him. Below the photo the caption reads:

MISSING  
STEVEN ROGERS  
PLEASE CALL 202-555-0185 WITH INFORMATION

I tear the flyer off the pole and half run home. Steve is still at work, which is good, because I’m not really sure what to say to him yet.

How do you ask someone if you accidentally kidnapped them?

Instead of pondering it I pull out my laptop. Missing persons databases are public and I could use more information. But even after an hour of searching I can’t seem to find Steve. There’s not a single photo that matches the one on the flyer. There’s not even one that looks like him.

I sit back in my chair and bite my lip.

This is weird and it doesn’t make sense and maybe I’m just over reacting. Does Steve have friends? Maybe it’s just a friend playing a prank on him. Maybe I should call the number. Maybe I _shouldn’t_ call the number.

Maybe another creepy, slightly older, former special agent and assassin has taken a liking to him and is setting a trap. I would probably do that if I were trying to kidnap Steve.

No I wouldn’t, it’s too sloppy.

Freddie sighs loudly and puts her chin on my toes.

“Yeah, sorry, I know.” I glance at the clock. Steve won’t be home for another three hours. I look at Freddie and she looks back, her ears pricking up. “But what if he put it up?” I lean down. “What if he’s sick of me? Freddie, what if he never liked me at all and—and I just pressured him into this and now he’s using this as a way of escaping??”

She whines and licks my shins.

A small voice inside me tells me that theory’s ridiculous. But yet another voice argues it would be ridiculous for him to ever love me in the first place.

For three hours I think and I ponder and I decide he hates me and I decide he doesn’t. And when the front door opens I leap up from the couch ready to let it all burst forth but when I see him it catches in my throat.

There are dark circles under his eyes, and his nose and his cheeks are flushed pink. He looks like he’s been up all night or just ran a marathon or something.

“Steve,”

“Hey Bucky,” he drops his bag and comes over to hug me.

I wrap my arms around him gingerly.

He groans in exhaustion and pulls me to the couch, pushing me down so he can curl up with his head in my lap.

His nose is pushed against my stomach and he’s wheezing and honestly when he wheezes it’s hard for me not to react like a small child who’s just heard a puppy crying.

“Steve,” I say, half melting. “Let me feel your forehead.”

He mumbles something against my belly and tries to cuddle closer.

I pull him away just enough to feel his face. As expected he’s burning up. He puts his hand over mine where it rests on his cheek and gazes up at me.

“James.” He murmurs. “I love you.” He tries to breathe deep. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He kisses my hand.

I soften. “I know, Steve, I love you too. Now let me go get some cold medicine.”

“No! Just a little bit longer.” He grabs the hem of my shirt in his fists and cuddles closer to me.

I sit for a long time with him like that, just stroking his hair. He’s snoozing pretty quickly, his chest still creaking with wheezing breaths. I worry that maybe I should take him to the hospital.

I have to go get more medicine because we used it all up the _last two_ _times_ he was sick. I’m pretty sure that’s unusually frequent, especially for someone who doesn’t drink.

After I've let him sleep for a while I carefully lift him out of my lap and escape the couch before gently putting him down again. His fingers trail off me like he doesn’t want to let go.

I kiss his forehead before I grab my coat and head to a little 24-hour pharmacy.

There’s allergy and asthma medicine next to the cold and fever and I wonder if maybe I should buy that? Or maybe I should buy a car. Steve does do a lot of walking out in the cold.

When I get home again I honestly have more medication than his tiny body can handle and I see he’s no longer on the couch.

My laptop is still on the end table, the missing poster with Steve on it is underneath the laptop where it’s out of sight. The thought of it is still gnawing at me.

I grab them both as I head upstairs. I can do a little more research after I put the meds in Steve’s room so he can take them when he gets up again.

I open Steve’s door silently, so I don’t wake him. But when I lean in to put the bag on the floor I see he’s already awake.

The room is pristine, the bed is made. He’s kneeling on the floor, folding clothes into a duffle bag.

The room is clean because he’s packing up his belongings.

Dread fills me, I was _right_. He is escaping. He’s never loved me, Jesus maybe he’s been lying this whole time.

He glances up and nearly jumps out of his skin, inhaling sharply then saying my name softly when he exhales. “James. I thought you were asleep.”

“G-going somewhere?” My voice cracks and I don’t mean for it to.

He looks down at the bag and bites his lip as his eyes well up with tears.

“Is that what this is?!” I thrust the missing person flyer forward. My voice is getting louder and I don’t mean for it to.

He flinches and scrubs at one of his eyes with his sleeve.

“L-look, James, I promise, you don’t understand.”

\+ + +


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i owe a thousand thank yous to anyone still reading. Sorry about the wait, sometimes the little gay writer inside me just dies and can't be resuscitated

“Are you even actually sick?!” I’m shouting now and he’s trembling.

“Please stop! Please…” he stands and comes over to me. “Please don’t.”

He gently pulls the flyer from my hand, his fingers still shaking. “I'll take this. And-and-and,” he takes a deep breath and a tear glides down his cheek. “And you’ll quiet down. A-and then I’m gonna get my stuff, and—“ his voice cracks.

I wrap my arm around him. I cup his face in my hand and I stroke his cheek. His skin is still hot. I know he’s actually sick, I didn’t mean to yell. I don’t know how to fix this.

“Bucky, I have to go. Just, just listen to me, o-okay? After I leave, somebody’s gonna c-come here, okay, a man’s gonna come looking for me and no matter what he says you don’t tell him anything,” he takes a shaking breath. “When he asks, pretend you never met me. Pretend you don’t know me and don’t tell him anything about me being here, okay?”

“Steve,”

“No, okay, this is important, James, you can’t tell him anything, you have to act like you don’t know me, he could hurt you.”

“Steve, what the hell is going on?!”

He flinches and looks down.

I take a deep breath. “Sorry, you’re just…freaking me out.”

“I know, and I-I know it sounds crazy, it is, but…” he holds my hand for a moment. “But that’s how it is and I have to leave. I love you so much and I’m never gonna forget you.”

“Why do you have to leave?” I hold his hand so he can’t pull away like he keeps trying to.

“B-because if he catches up, he’s gonna kill me.” His voice cracks again.

I look into his eyes and my heart skips at the dead seriousness and the genuine fear that penetrates them. “Who? Steve, look, I’m not gonna let you leave in the middle of the night like this, especially if you want to stay. Now sit down and tell me what the hell is going on or I’m calling the damn number on the flyer and asking whoever’s on the other end to explain it to me.”

He swallows and nods, still shaking like a leaf.

I pull him to the bed and at first we sit facing each other, with space between us, but then he just mumbles and starts shaking his head and crawls into my lap instead.

It feels right to have him there, more so because of how upset he is.

“I don’t—I don’t—“ he huffs in frustration and takes my hand in both of his, tracing the lines in my palm. “I don’t want to talk about this. But I will it’s just…hard. I-I don’t know where to start.”

“You and me both, pal.” I mumble against his hair. It prompts a smile from him, one that’s barely there, but it’s enough because he continues with a little more confidence.

“Uh, when I was um, growing up, my dad was…my dad is not a-a great guy. I don’t know what happened to him, I-I mean, I think maybe he was nice but…”

“Not anymore.”

“Y-yeah, and,” he takes a sharp breath. “I guess you know where this is going. You’ve seen the scars.”

“Yeah, I have.” I clench my fist before I can stop myself. It’s not the hand Steve’s holding but he still notices.

Steve presses closer, resting his head against my chest. “It got a lot worse when I was fifteen, he was angry because I ‘turned out to be a fag’ and for the first time in my life I started fighting back. For a while it seemed like maybe I could win but when I realized I couldn’t, I convinced mom we could run away. That we could start a new life without him and pay for everything ourselves and we were gonna leave, in the middle of the night, a-and it was gonna be perfect,” his voice crackles away and he draws a deep breath. “But he caught us and it was the angriest I've ever seen him and—and he didn’t mean to, I know he wasn’t expecting it, b-but he knocked mom down and…sh-she didn’t get up.” he pauses to take another rattling breath.  
“I just ran, James.” He murmurs. “I just ran away and I've been running ever since.”

I wrap my arms around Steve and pull him as close to me as I can get him without melding our separate existences into one. I try to protect him from the entire world with nothing but my arms, I hold him like we are buried in the snow and I am his only chance of surviving.

I wish unendingly that I could take back his past and erase every scar.

And for a long time, we sit in silence.

I speak first. “I’m gonna protect you.”

He looks up with tired eyes.

I gently move him out of my lap and go to the doorway to retrieve the cold medicine. “I’m gonna make you take this goddamn medicine and I’m gonna sit by your bed all night and when you wake up I will be here, taking care of you.”

He smiles, soft and weak, but very sweet and more like the Steve I love. “James,” he rubs at one of his already red eyes. “Could you maybe sit in the bed instead of by it?”

“Right. Right.” I kiss his forehead and take my place beside him and after some cough syrup and curling up in my arms, he falls asleep for the rest of the night.

\+ + +

I don’t get much sleep. By the time the sunlight glows on the walls, I've slept maybe three hours. There’s too much inside me to quiet down. I’m still just a little pissed at Steve, even though I don’t want to be, I’m pissed he was gonna leave me, regardless of the reasons behind it.

But that’s not important, especially not compared to the worry that swamps my soul. Every additional _what if_ I think of makes me want to squirm and for the first time in a long time I feel as though there should be a gun under the pillow.

Steve sleeps in. I stay close to him the whole time, both of us fully dressed, Steve clutching my hand or my shirt at any given moment, like he’s afraid I'll float away.

It’s nearly noon when he finally sits up, bleary eyed.

I convince him to take a shower while I fix breakfast. He doesn’t have work today and the day would be normal if he weren’t so visibly terrified.

His hands are a little jittery, he keeps glancing out the window and every time I hug him he melts into me like all the energy’s been sapped from him.

I keep telling him it’s gonna be okay, but I don’t think it’s helping.

The next day Steve has work but he’s afraid to go and honestly he’s still too sick, despite how much he argues he’s fine.

On the third day, there’s a knock on the front door and Steve turns pale.

I answer it. The man standing there is older, at least fifty. He has dark blonde hair with gray streaks in it, a worn smile and wrinkles around his eyes.

He greets me warmly, producing one of the missing posters for Steve as he speaks. “I’m sorry to bother you sir, it’s just, I’m looking for my son. His name is Steven, he’s a runaway but…I’m just trying to bring him home.”

He seems sincere and worried.

My heart skips a beat. But I answer in an even tone. “Sorry, haven’t seen him.”

The man starts to speak again but I just shut the door. I guess that discourages him enough to leave. I have to search a little bit to find Steve, he’s under the kitchen table hugging Freddie like she’s a teddy bear.

I kneel in front of him. “He’s gone. Everything’s okay.”

He glances around. He’s not crying, he’s incredibly calm other than shaking like he’s freezing to death. “He’s gonna come back.” He says, grabbing my hand. “He did this before, I was hiding at school, but—but he looked through my cell phone, I think, he knew what I was planning.”

I scoot underneath the table with him. “You don’t have a cell phone.”

“Yeah, I know Bucky! But it doesn’t matter, he knows, he—he used to do it when I was a kid too, he just knows everything, I don’t—I don’t know how!”

I stroke his hand with my thumb. “Shh.”

He nods and quiets down but it still takes a long while after that to convince him to come out from underneath the table.

He looks so scared. I have a very strong urge to violently destroy anyone’s who’s caused him to feel this way, but it eases down some when he comes close to me.

I try to tell him comforting things, but I’m not really great at it so instead I turn on the tv and make fun of the people on it till he laughs.

We don’t do much other than watch tv and snack all day, we both fall asleep on the couch.

Half way through the night, I’m startled awake by Freddie, growling and snarling at something. I sit up and discover she’s looking out the window at a shadowy figure on the sidewalk.

A single hand gesture silences Freddie, another two communicate she is to stay and protect a still sleeping Steve.

I go upstairs and grab something small, just a handgun. But by the time I’m back down again, the figure outside is gone.

\+ + +


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haha, shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hey, I'm back! Thanks for reading, hope you're still enjoying it, I promise on my next fic I will work diligently to keep it constant and consistent!

By the time morning comes, I haven’t slept at all. Steve wakes up slow, cuddling closer to me and refusing to move for a good thirty minutes.  
I decide, after some rumination, that maybe I shouldn’t tell Steve about Freddie waking me up in the middle of the night. After all, there’s no way to be sure I didn’t imagine the whole incident.  
Instead, I suggest we go out together, get ice cream and pie, the idea makes him nervous but he agrees, mumbling something to himself.  
I get dressed while Steve takes a shower. Once I've got a clean t-shirt and jeans, I head to the bedroom with all my old gear and find a small holster that’ll make it easy to carry the handgun under my jacket without looking like I’m carrying a gun like some psycho.  
The holster is made for two guns though, so I grab another piece, and couple extra clips, just in case, right?  
I have a hoodie on to hide them by the time Steve is out of the shower, which is good, I don’t wanna freak him out.  
He asks if we can stop by the craft store for some paint and I agree happily, he always looks so whimsical when we’re wandering around the craft store. His eyes light up and he starts casually explaining to me the kind of pencils you buy for this and the kind of paper you need for that, and, if I’m speaking honestly, I do not give a shit what he’s talking about it’s just it makes him so happy to talk about it.  
The walk is cold, we hold hands and bump into each other, I try to think of things to say to keep Steve’s mind busy, but I’m not the conversationalist I used to be.  
I decide it’s best to go with what I know, so I start explaining to Steve how to use the footprints in the snow to track somebody.  
He seems interested in the same way you might be interested in a bear at the zoo, with the casual understanding that its current habitat is the only thing keeping it from killing you.  
In the craft store, I ask what color paint he needs, glancing at the wall of paint in front of me, every color imaginable is there. “What are you painting, anyway? I've never seen you paint before.”  
“I’m not really good at it, actually.” He chuckles, he sounds a little nervous.  
“The colors never seem bright enough, so I get brighter, and then even brighter, and it always comes out looking like unicorn puke.”  
I laugh.   
“But, other than that, the principles are the same as drawing, or anything else. Shadows are dark, light is light, elbows bend a certain way. And the only rule is make it look the way you want it to look.”  
“But you don’t want it to look like unicorn puke?”  
He smiles up at me, relaxing a little. “Maybe when I was five, but now, I at least try to be a little mature.”  
I shrug and glance up again at all the paint in front of us. “I dunno, s’not so bad, when I first met you I think unicorn puke felt like an accurate description. You were so bright you made my eyes hurt. Turned out to be a good thing.”  
He giggles and wraps his arm around mine, putting his cheek on my shoulder. “Maybe, just a little unicorn puke.”  
I nod and randomly pluck a tube of neon pink paint from the shelf. “Yeah, I think that’s exactly what every painting needs.”  
By the time we’ve left the craft store and gotten to the diner, Steve is giggling and talking and swinging our hands back and forth between us.  
We order and we decide to get coffee and milkshakes to drink while we’re waiting, Steve is like an excited little kid with milkshakes and after one sip of his he lets out this little ‘ooohhhhhhhhhhh’ and says “That’s so good.”  
It’s so cute and I feel like the luckiest idiot in the world just sitting in the same booth as him.  
Steve is halfway through his French fries and a burger I know he can’t finish when I hear a gruff voice behind me.   
“Steven!”  
Steve goes pale in front of me, as I look around, I see the man from before, only this time he does not look warm and caring and weary, his jaw is sharp, the muscles in his neck pulled tight and his voice is just above a growl. “You can’t keep running from me.”  
I assess the situation, back when I was in the field, I could do it easily, it was like time would slow down long enough for me to spot hostiles and escape routes.   
Now though, it’s different, it’s like I’m looking through a blur, I have to rely on instincts, and my instincts aren’t reliable.  
Steve’s dad: hostile, quickly approaching my position.  
He’s a little calmer when he gets to our table, clearly wanting to dissipate the amount of attention he drew to himself by practically shouting at Steve.  
Steve slides back into the corner of the booth, shaking his head. “I’m not going with you, dad, I’m not going with you.”  
Fuck, I’m behind, I haven’t even located escape routes, fuck.  
“You cannot just run away from me, Steven, I raised you.” He puts his hands on the table, leaning closer to Steve so he can keep his voice low.  
“No, you didn’t!” Steve’s neck flushes red and his hands shake. “Mom did! You were busy getting drunk and shouting at literally anyone within shouting distance!”  
His father flinches a little, seemingly taken aback. He kicks back into gear quickly, gesturing at me. “So just because you don’t like me you get to run off wherever you want, and shack up with Ted Bundy over there?”  
There is a split second of silence as I watch Steve’s face change from fear and distress to a crashing, bright red rage. “You do not get to say that! You are a monster! You’re—you’re a murderer! And I didn’t want to believe it—of course I didn’t want to believe it, I didn’t want to believe my whole childhood, I wanted to think you were a good man and I wanted to believe that—that you’re not capable of—of—I didn’t want to be related to someone so—so horrible—“ he stammers, hands in the air, face red.  
Again, his father looks taken aback. “Keep your voice down.” He says as he glances around us. It’s definitely too late for that though, the entire diner has eyes glued to us like they’re viewing a soap opera. “Steven, quiet down.” He reaches out to grab Steve by the arm.  
I can’t let that happen and instinct takes over.  
Half way through my movements, slogging against the blur, I can feel gears slowly easing closer, just barely linking together, but connecting well enough to throw me into combat mode, everything is silent and suddenly I’m processing the world in slow motion; Steve’s father’s wrist is in my grasp.   
I gaze down at it, in the corner of my eye I can see Steve’s mouth moving--but I hear nothing, he hasn’t even made a sound yet.  
The silence splits with the loud crack of the bones in Steve’s father’s arm. It’s the only thing I hear, crisp and clear, before suddenly I’m thinking in a blur again. A woman screams behind me, Steve’s father screams in front of me, I blink slow as molasses and suddenly I am close to him. His hand is mangled in mine, his arm is twisted backwards to keep him still, with my other hand I have a gun pressed to his temple.  
I can feel him shaking in my grip but I can’t seem to remember how to let go, I’m working only off of muscle memory. It’s just instinct.  
My mouth forms into a snarl, I bare my teeth towards the target and lean closer, it feels like every muscle in my body is tensing in cramps, all I want to do is tear him apart. I hear another scream when the shot rings out and a splatter of blood catches my eyelashes.  
My gun hits the floor, Steve’s dad is still standing, I can hear Steve’s voice, suddenly hoarse as he appears in my vision, above me, wait, he’s leaning over me, I’m on the ground.  
It doesn’t really click until Steve says my name, sobbing and desperate as he lifts blood covered hands. I look around slowly, I can’t really figure out the source of the pain but I’m pretty sure I’m feeling it. Steve is on his knees next to my head. I can see a police officer coming towards us, his radio in his hand.  
It’s too soon, was he here the whole time?  
“Jesus…” my voice sounds thick and wet, Steve touches my cheek and cradles my head.  
“Help is coming,” Steve says, his body trembling.  
“I didn’t even—“ the words catch, there’s something in my throat, the police officer is touching me. “I’m such a failure.” I try not to cough the words.  
Steve says something, but it’s hard to understand him because he’s crying. Maybe he said I love you.  
I try to tell him not to cry, but my mouth just drags out some sort of groan instead and I realize that’s a stupid thing to say anyway.  
It hurts to see him cry, like a knife to the chest. But I want him to. It’s who he is, this scrubbed raw ray of sunshine, emotions pushing so hard at his heart it’s starting to tear his skin.  
I love him this way, because it’s how he is, and I guess it’s how he’s supposed to be.

\+ + +


	8. Chapter 8

In my head, I see Steve and me going on motorcycle rides and taking Freddie to the dog park. I know it’s not real, it’s got that weird Technicolor tinge that dreams sometimes have, where everything is a little bit too nice. But it’s good anyway.

The motorcycle scares him and he holds me tight around the waist, I can feel his nose against my shoulders. But after three rides he wants to try and I teach him how to drive it, I put my hand on his, I sit behind him, I press against him.

I open my eyes.

The room I’m in isn’t so bad, clean, grayish, quiet. There’s no window, just fluorescent lights and an old tv mounted on the wall in the corner. When I try to move it’s like it’s delayed, nothing until suddenly I lurch forward, both my hands jerking upwards. The right one catches and stops and I look over. I’m handcuffed to the hospital bed.

As my other hand comes back down, it touches something far softer than cotton sheets and I glance over. Steve is holding it, silent as a mouse, just staring at me with honest blue eyes, tired and shining like he’s been crying for days.

I want to speak but I have nothing to say.

A moment longer of just staring at each other is too much, I grasp at the front of his shirt and pull him closer until I've toppled him into the bed on top of me.

He gasps a little and cups my face in his hands. “Sh-shhh, careful, carful,” he murmurs, his voice is so soft, almost a whisper.

“Fuck that.” I manage to croak out, yanking him close enough to kiss, hard and hungry. My handcuffs clink a little as I try out of reflex to hold him, to pull all of him close to me.

He moves closer and for a moment he’s nothing but heat and heartbeats in my hand, but then he pulls away from me, a sober and almost but not quite happy look on his face. “They’ll be back in here any minute to take me away again.” He whispers.

“And put you where? Not—not with him—“

“No, no not at all,” he almost smiles, but not quite. “He’s been arrested for m-m…he’s going to jail.”

“He better be, piece of shit!” My voice rises sharply and Steve flinches, pressing a finger to my lips.

“Hush, please, I just want a little bit longer.” His eyes travel down my body, creased around the edges as he focuses, like he’s trying to memorize every detail.

It’s silent as I try to process everything. My thoughts are nothing but fog and I’m being distracted by him every second any way.

“Me too,” I say finally. “I’m going to jail too.” The worst of me immediately starts fraying at the edges, all I can think about is how fucking stupid I am, how could I let this happen, how could I pull a gun in front of civilians, how could I not notice the officer in one of the booths.

Steve sighs, heavy like steam in the air and brushes a lock of hair out of my face. “It’s not—not guaranteed, it was in my defense, but…” he swallows a little and does what he can to avoid eye contact with me.

I can feel a thousand pleas welling up within me, _don’t cry, don’t worry about it, don’t speak_. But none of them come out, instead I just hold him. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. And whatever I get, I-I deserve it. I couldn’t even shoot him. I hesitated. I was never gonna kill him. I could’ve saved you right—“

“You weren’t?” Steve cuts in, looking at me with something indecipherable in his eyes.

I stutter out an apology. “I-I’m sorry, I wanted to, I just…couldn’t. Even when everything else disappears, it was like I could still feel you there, I couldn’t—I couldn’t—just not with you there.”

An actual smile breaks across his miserable demeanor. “I love you.” He wipes at the corner of his eye and opens his mouth to speak again but he’s interrupted by the door opening and a startled nurse shouting, “How the hell did you get back in here?”

Behind the nurse are two large and terrifying people, each in dark suits but with rather inconspicuous faces. A plain woman and a not too noticeable man.

Steve gives me one last kiss before leaping off the bed and offering a string of apologies, though it doesn’t stop the nurse from rather roughly dragging him out of the room and shutting the door behind them. The two strangers remain, profoundly unsettling, despite the fact that there’s nothing actually wrong with them. Just a man and woman, each dressed nicely, neither one particularly angry.

“You’re from the agency?” I say, trying to keep my voice level.

The woman nods. “It’s not like you to do this Mr. Barnes.”

“I lost my temper. You saw Steve, he’s…”

“Worth it?” She smiles. It makes me uncomfortable.

“Yeah.” I look down at my lap. “You can’t do anything to him.”

“Like what exactly? Send a group of top secret operatives to kill him in the night? We’re not gonna do that Mr. Barnes. That seems a fate far more befitting you anyways.”

I swallow. “Chances are I could get off on self-defense.”

“You won’t have to.” She hands me a folder. “He won’t press charges. And you will be long gone by the time he gets a trial.”

I look up. “What?”

“You’re going somewhere nice and that little troublemaker is going with you.” She gestures at me to open the folder.

I do and inside it there’s two plane tickets, a lease agreement, and an acceptance letter from Columbia University, addressed to Steve. I stare in disbelief. “Why??”

The woman only shrugs. “Somebody up there cares about you, Mr. Barnes. Maybe they think with this new addition to the family you’ll work your way back up to active duty. Who knows?”

I stammer. “I don’t deserve this, I can’t…thank you, ma’am.”

She smiles. “I’m just following orders.” Then she turns and they both leave.

A moment later a police officer is coming in to remove my handcuffs and I can see Steve waiting just outside the door, looking worried.

“Uh, Officer, could you send him in here please?”

“The scrawny kid?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’d like to speak with him.”

Steve is happy to be close to me again, hopping right into my bed without an invitation, and looking me directly in the eyes. “Who were those guys? Is everything okay?”

“Everything is…great, I think. How would you feel about moving?”

He frowns. “Why?”

I pull the letter out of the folder. “So you can go to college.”

His eyes widen and he immediately examines the letter, seemingly trying to find signs of forgery. Apparently there are none, because a moment later he is shining with excitement. “This is—this is crazy—did you sell your soul or something?? This is amazing!!”

I shrug. “There are strings attached, I just don’t know what they are yet.”

He swallows and pauses his celebration for a moment. “Is that okay? We don’t have to accept this. All I need is you.” He smiles.

It takes me a second to answer, I find myself still stunned by the idea that he could love me. It’s hard to imagine this is all real. “Ehh, I don’t really have much of a choice. But I don’t mind, as long as you wanna come with me.”

“Of course I do.” He puts his head on my shoulder and very gently fits his body against mine, touching me in every way he can, sighing like weights have been lifted from his lungs.

It’s surreal lying there. It’s terrifying thinking about what’s to come.

“Hey, Steve, would you be willing to run home for me?”

“Yeah, what do you need?”

“Ah, well, I mean, they’ll let a dog visit me in the hospital, right?”

\+ + +

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! It's over! Thanks a trillion guys, if you made it to this incredibly delayed ending, I'm totally proud of you and I promise writing this story has grown me for the better. I hope to keep you guys supplied with quality gay ass fics in the future and I promise I will be much, much better about updating regularly when I post another!  
> Thank you so so much!


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